


Am I the Current (Tiger) King of England?

by Dee_Laundry



Category: Sherlock (TV), Tiger King (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Coronavirus/Covid-19, Dreams, First Kiss, Friendship, John's Sexuality, M/M, Mentions of Violence, Mentions of dom-sub, Mentions of sexual activity, Past Character Death, Post-Canon, Post-Season/Series 04, Quarantine, Sherlock's sexuality, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:55:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24531139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dee_Laundry/pseuds/Dee_Laundry
Summary: “I had the weirdest dream last night,” John said.  Seven times.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 14
Kudos: 88
Collections: Banned Together Bingo 2020, Isolated Johnlock Collection, Quarantine, Sherlock Author Showcase 2020





	Am I the Current (Tiger) King of England?

**Author's Note:**

> Set after Season/Series Four of Sherlock. Shifts the timeline of the montage at the end of Episode 4-3, “The Final Problem,” so it took place just a few months before the UK stay-at-home order was issued in March 2020 due to the coronavirus/COVID-19. Spoilers for all episodes of Tiger King, although you do not need to know that show to read this fic. Does not include any information released to the public after the documentary was completed. Thank you to my wonderful beta bironic and early reader DJ.

“I had the weirdest dream last night,” John said to Mrs. Hudson as they sat down for a spot of breakfast in Mrs. H’s kitchen. Rosie and Sherlock were tucked in their beds upstairs, Rosie having not woken yet and Sherlock having gone to bed just as John had been starting his morning ablutions.

Pouring tea for each of them, Mrs. Hudson gave an encouraging-sounding hum, so John went on. “It was a sort of retelling of that Netflix show we watched together, Tiger King. We were all of us in it, as people from the show: me, you, Sherlock, Mycroft, Molly, and Lestrade. And you’ll never guess who was the lead, the Tiger King. It was --”

“Sherlock.” Mrs. H’s expression was matter-of-fact as she sipped her tea.

John felt that ‘pique’ might best describe his reaction. “I could’ve been the lead!”

“No. It would definitely have been Sherlock.” Seeing the expression on John’s face, she patted his hand gently. “I just mean for Tiger King, love. The eccentric, dramatic show-off? Definitely Sherlock.”

He grunted, still a bit perturbed at Mrs. H not seeing him in a leading role. Sherlock was the driving force behind their mystery-solving, of course, but John had been an officer in the army and a trauma surgeon. You’d best be able to drive a team of people forward if you wanted to succeed in either of those roles, to say nothing of both at the same time.

Mrs. H tutted and went on, “Now if you said it’d been a James Bond dream, I would definitely have thought you put yourself in Mr. Bond’s role. Guns and running and international intrigues and ladies draping themselves about you left and right -- yes, you’d be the lead there.”

Mollified, John tucked into his beans and toast. Mrs. H continued, “So now, before you tell me how your dream went, tell me who I am in it. There aren’t many ladies to choose from, so I suppose I’m Carole Baskin.”

“No, that was Moriarty. The nemesis, you see. You were the Tiger King’s mum.”

“Who loses her house due to his shenanigans?” Mrs. H shook her head. “No, thank you. You can just write me right out of that story, young man.”

“Almost loses her house; it’s saved in the end, I think. And anyway, that’s not how it went in the dream. No lawsuits; Carole-Moriarty was much more action-oriented than that. Like he was in real life but with more tigers and thankfully fewer deaths.”

Pausing her knife and fork for a moment, Mrs. H cocked her head. “‘He,’ did you say? Or was it ‘she’? In the dream.”

John had to pause as well. “Hm. I don’t know. Carole-Moriarty’s shape kept changing from Carole to Moriarty and back again, but it seemed natural for that to be the case. Does that happen to you in dreams? What you’re looking at keeps flipping and you just accept it.”

“Oh yes.” She sat back in her chair, cup of tea cradled in her hands. “So, what exciting adventures did I get up to? Please tell me there _were_ exciting adventures and not just hoovering or something as you boys ran around.”

“You were kidnapped.”

“That’s not adventure,” she scoffed. “Being held hostage is upsetting but it’s also a bit boring. You’re not _doing_ anything when you’re the hostage.”

“I wouldn’t call you tricking the CIA and hiding crucial evidence from them _nothing_ ,” replied John. “And anyway, you definitely did something in the dream, because as Sherlock and I were running around like chickens with their heads cut off trying to find you, you rescued yourself.”

“Ooh, lovely. How?”

“Dunno. You just walked back into the tiger park, carrying a casket of jewels and wearing dragon clothes. I remember thinking, ‘Good, a bit more protection when you’ve been kidnapped.’”

Mrs. H smiled at him. “That does sound fun. By ‘dragon clothes’ you mean…”

“Clothes that a dragon would wear.”

“What are those?”

“You know, I can’t remember.” 

Finished eating, John poured himself some more tea to buy a moment or two before he made the point he’d been building to. “I was so happy to see you. We all were, of course, but in particular this morning after I woke up, it made me remember when I, um, didn't keep up with you after Sherlock, er, went away.”

“It’s forgiven, dear,” Mrs. H said warmly. She was so good to him.

“Thank you. But if I ever, well, disappear on you again like that, will you please toss me in your boot and bring me back?”

She put her tea down and leaned over to pat him on the cheek. “Yes, of course I will.” 

They washed the breakfast dishes together, and as they did, a few snuffles came through the baby monitor. John knew it would soon be time to go upstairs and take care of his daughter. He wasn’t _quite_ prepared, though, to hear “Daddy” from the monitor in a normally-baritone voice taken up an octave.

Mrs. Hudson broke into a smile almost as big as John’s when the voice continued. “Ahem. Sherlock and I are hungry so please come upstairs soon. Bring as many sweet things as you can because we like those best.”

Mrs. H began gathering a plate of all varieties of Danish pastry plus a few biscuits as John dried the last dish.

Sherlock continued in a regular voice, “This is Sherlock now. I was communicating on behalf of young Watson because she has been engaged in activities of an indelicate nature. Those are almost complete, by the way. You can tell that I was speaking Watson’s words instead of my own because I never say please.”

“Peas!” Rosie shouted.

“That’s right,” Sherlock replied to her. “I never say please.” His voice became muffled. “I never do, do I?”

John was halfway up the stairs by the time Rosie’s joyful shriek trailed off.

***

“I had the weirdest dream last night,” John said to Rosie, who was sitting on the floor of their shared room playing with dolls and stuffies. The dolls looked to be having either an orgy or a rugby scrum, and John had officially been in quarantine too long if he was ascribing sexual thoughts to his toddler daughter’s playthings.

Rosie cooed and offered John the nurse doll that always reminded him of Mary. He was loath to take the doll away from her intimate clinch with the Frozen princess, but Rosie moved the pirate doll over, and there was that problem solved.

“It was quite odd,” John continued. “You were in it, sort of. You were a tiger cub. Do you remember what a _tiger_ is, sweet? Big cat with orange and black stripes?”

“Rawr,” said Rosie, and he couldn’t resist hugging her.

“Yes, exactly. And Uncle Sherlock was in it too. He was a tiger keeper.”

John moved the nurse doll down to aid the doll in the three-piece suit with the dislocated shoulder and hip. “Uncle Mycroft, too.”

“Mikey!” cooed Rosie.

“You do know you’re the only person on the planet who’s allowed to call him that, don’t you? But I was about to tell you that your mum was a tiger too in my dream. She had bit the arm off one of the zoo workers.” 

Rosie picked up a purple rabbit stuffie and chomped at its arm.

“Well, yes,” John said, alarmed. He pulled the rabbit gently from her hands. “But we as people should not bite. You know that, right? Do not bite.”

“Kiss boo-boo,” said Rosie. 

“Well, yes,” John repeated. He kissed the rabbit’s arm and passed it back to Rosie, who gave it a great, wet, smacking kiss -- more on the shoulder than arm, right where John’s scar was, interestingly -- and then threw it aside in favor of a different doll.

John picked up the nurse doll and looked it over, head to toe. With a big breath, he shifted to the point of the conversation. Well, not conversation, exactly. More like a monologue with occasional interjection from someone else. Bit like the blog, actually. A _lot_ like the blog. Not that he’d ever put this on the blog, or tell anyone other than Rosie, who wouldn't even remember it. But it felt important to put this out there, into the air, more real than just leaving it to plod around inside his head.

“Now,” he said, “dreams are not generally symbolic. You should know that from the outset. A dream is just a dream; don’t spend your time looking for the meaning. ‘A cigar is just a cigar’ and all that.

“But this one time only, your mum being a tiger and not a person solidified something for me.” 

When John looked down, Rosie was chewing on the tag inside the dress of one of her dolls. She noticed him looking and let out a small “rawr.” He was tempted to let it all drop, tackle his daughter in a hug, and play dollies and chase and aeroplane for the rest of the morning. _Very_ tempted, but he bulled his way forward regardless.

“Your mum being a tiger in the dream, I think means that that’s who she is to me.”

Rosie blinked, reminding John of Sherlock’s ‘does not compute’ expression.

“Not a tiger. I mean, she’s your mum.”

Rosie blinked again and commenced staring at him like he was an idiot. Which, of course, reminded him of Sherlock, etc., etc., and he hurried to clarify. “That’s who she is: your mum. That’s what we remember about her. She was your mum and she loved you with all her heart, and she was a good mother to you. I’ll keep telling you about her as a mum through your life, everything I can remember, and showing you our pictures of her being your mum.

“As for the rest of who she was, what she did… I think I need to leave her in the past. She’s someone who used to be my wife, not my wife who used to, um, be. Which is what I’ve been thinking of her as.” He held up his left hand in front of Rosie. “See?”

Rosie made her current stuffie, a weird unnameable creature, high-five him. John laughed; Rosie went back to playing.

“I’m still wearing my wedding ring. Didn’t even move it over to the other hand, like some widowers do. I’ve been holding onto her as my one great romantic love. But my dream reminded me of some of these things she did, not as your mum, that… weren’t the best, let’s just say. And it’s not that I’m some angel; I’m just saying our relationship was up and down.” 

Rosie’s bum was in the air; she was crawling under her cot. John waited to see if she’d get stuck, but she wiggled out of the space just fine on her own.

“I once thought that she was the best thing that could have possibly happened to me. It was true, at the time.” After a kiss to its head, John put the nurse back into the pile of dollies. “Then not five minutes later your Uncle Sherlock came back from the dead.

“And now…” He paused for a moment, and sat up straighter. “I was going to say you’re the best thing that’s happened to me, but that’s not entirely true. Learning how to be a real father; rearranging my mind and my life to put you first -- _that’s_ been the best thing to happen to me.” He cleared his throat of the lump that had somehow settled there.

Rosie scooted closer to him and lay her head on his knee, looking up at him with the sweetest smile. He didn’t deserve her, not really, but he was striving to do so.

“Is it time for a cuddle?” he asked.

She crawled into his lap and put her thumb in her mouth. “Let’s exchange that for a dummy; here you go. How about a book?”

Rosie handed him a book that had been lying behind her, _Hop on Pop_. “Oh, I’d meant to get rid of this one. There’ll be no jumping on fathers in this house.” He tossed the book aside.

“Dadapida,” Rosie said around her dummy.

“ _The Very Hungry Caterpillar_ is an excellent choice; coming right up.” He pulled the book from the bookcase and began to read. “In the light of the moon, a little egg lay on a leaf.” 

***

“I had the weirdest dream last night,” John said to Molly when she picked up the phone.

“John?”

“Well, yes.”

“Sorry, we’re a bit busy here. I didn’t look to see who it was.”

“Oh, you’re busy. It’s nothing important; we can talk another time.”

“No, no. I’m in a good stopping place and could do with a breather!” Molly’s smile was apparent in her voice, and John was glad to be catching her at a break time. Medical professionals needed all the laughs they could get, what with the coronavirus running everyone ragged, and John thought this story might do.

As he opened his mouth to start, Molly continued with an abrupt question. “Why aren’t _you_ busy?”

He blinked, but before he could even formulate his response, Molly went on, “Sorry, sorry, did that sound cross? I didn’t mean to sound cross. Sherlock mentioned you're home all the time, and I only was curious why, being a doctor, because you’re normally an ‘on the front lines’ sort of person…”

“No, no, you’re right; I should be out there and will be soon. Rosie had a fever just under a fortnight ago, so I’ve had to quarantine here for the safety of the patients at my surgery.”

“How is Rosie?”

“Absolutely fine; it was just a little bug, gone in under 24 hours, but better safe than sorry when the coronavirus is about. I should be cleared for work by next week.”

“So poor Mrs. Hudson will have Rosie full-time? I’d offer to help, but we really are quite slammed in the morgue.”

John shifted in his chair. He’d meant this call to focus on the dream, but this was an opening he needed to take. “I know you are. I’m still amazed you were able to help me so often when Rosie was younger. I, um, can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”

“Oh, it was no trouble!”

“Don’t downplay, Molly; your help was really valuable. I didn’t thank you enough before, being rather stuck on myself, so I’m going to, ah, keep thanking you now.”

“John.” Molly sounded embarrassed, but they both knew the thanks were due her. “It was a pleasure to spend time with Rosie.”

“It should always be a pleasure, not something you’re, um, being pushed into. Any time you _want_ to come see your goddaughter, just let me know.”

“After the lockdown, of course.”

“Yes. Or we could Skype. Come to think of it, you probably should expect a Skype call or two from Sherlock and Rosie next week to show off their latest experiments while I’m at the surgery.”

“Is Sherlock to be the main minder, then?”

“Yep.”

A silence that had an air of skepticism followed, and John laughed. “Actually, Sherlock’s been great with Rosie. Helps with absolutely everything. I was a bit shocked; I thought changing nappies, at least, he’d say is reserved for the one who conceived her. But nope. He uses the time to teach her about the digestive system.”

Molly’s gentle laughter was great to hear. John smiled and continued, “I’m definitely going to have to warn her eventual nursery school teacher about that.”

“And crime scene language, too,” Molly reminded him.

“That too. When I tease Sherlock about it, he says ‘At least _I_ don’t have a swear jar with my name on it,’ which, he’s got me there.” They chuckled together.

“So it’s going well,” Molly said, mid-way between a statement and a question, “living with Sherlock again.”

“Yeah. It really is. Sherlock gave up the bedroom by the bath so Rosie and I could share it, and he’s stuffed himself into the smaller bedroom upstairs. Eventually it’ll get strange, father and daughter sharing a bedroom, but I’ve got a plan for that. Assuming Sherlock agrees.”

John cleared his throat. He hadn’t meant to tell Molly that he had a plan, for two reasons. One, it was more of a hope than a plan, and two, things had been a bit awkward on certain subjects since the forced “I love you” exchange between Molly and Sherlock. She seemed to have taken Sherlock’s subsequent explanation and apology gracefully, and the two of them had stayed good friends, but John could easily imagine the embarrassment the incident had caused her.

“I’ve only got a few more minutes, so didn’t you start this call with something about a dream?” Molly prompted.

“Oh, yes! I had a strange dream last night and you were in it.”

“Me?”

“All of us. You, me, Sherlock, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, and Greg Lestrade. It was based on Tiger King. Have you watched that?”

“On the telly? I can’t remember the last time I watched telly.”

John pushed aside a stab of guilt that he’d had so much leisure time while other doctors had been working. He’d quarantined for safety, and he’d be back out in the thick of it soon. Not the thick of it, actually; more like the suburbs of the thick of it, given he still worked at a GP surgery. He really should look seriously at re-certifying for A&E.

“So,” John said, “Tiger King was a Netflix documentary about a very strange man who ran a zoo with just tigers. Plus a few other big cats, but mainly tigers. And in my dream, Sherlock was that man, dealing with the tigers and driving people mad and trying to outwit an archenemy.”

“Just like in real life, but with tigers?”

John laughed. “Pretty much. You were a veterinarian in the dream. Sherlock relied on you to provide good medical care for the animals. You were crucial to the zoo, and he trusted you immensely.”

“That sounds lovely, not strange.”

“And you and Sherlock autopsied the tigers together, whenever they’d died.”

Molly paused for a moment. “I was going to say, ‘Not so lovely,’ but… We didn’t do anything odd afterward, like display the carcass or spread entrails around?”

Smiling, John reassured her. “No.”

“Then I think it is lovely,” she said determinedly. “You know I enjoy studying the dead so as to help the living, and Sherlock’s never seen a body part he didn’t want to know more about. Why wouldn’t we be the same with tigers?”

“Why wouldn’t you,” agreed John.

***

“I had the weirdest dream last night,” John said to Lestrade over Skype during Rosie's afternoon nap.

Lestrade’s face drew up, and he exhaled loudly through his nose. “Did it have anything to do with the string of robberies that’s been driving my team crazy for the last month?”

“Um, no?”

Lestrade relaxed. “Good. Then tell me all about it.”

“Did you ask Sherlock to help?”

The video on John’s laptop froze for a second. When it started again, Lestrade was rubbing his forehead. “The dream sounds much more interesting,” he said.

“You don’t even know what it’s about.”

“If it’s not about these sodding robberies and Sherlock sodding Holmes being sodding reasonable for once, then it’s got to be more interesting.”

“Reasonable? Sherlock?”

“Yeah. Funny, innit? He’s helping out a lot more over text -- even when Hopkins asked for help on a bleeding _petty vandalism_ \-- but won’t come to crime scenes now unless it’s ‘eleven on a ten-point scale, Grisham.’” Lestrade’s nose was in the air; his right hand was flipping dismissively. “‘Nothing less is worth the two weeks’ isolation at _Mycroft’s_.’”

With a twinkle in his eye, Lestrade was back to himself. “It’s actually not that bad, Mycroft’s, when you get a fire going, but still, if everybody took the stay-at-home order as seriously as that, we’d be much better off overall.”

“Huh.” John shook his head. “I’d noticed we’d not had many cases but Sherlock didn’t say… Well, anyway.”

“Anyway,” repeated Lestrade, “you said something about a dream?”

John adjusted his laptop a bit to put his face center-screen. “Dream, right. It was about that Tiger King show, except it was all of us instead of them.” John and Lestrade had had a couple of conversations about Tiger King already, with Lestrade refusing to share an opinion on Carole Baskin’s guilt or innocence (‘Won’t comment on another copper’s work without all the evidence’).

“Sherlock as Joe Exotic? I can see it, except the politics thing.”

“Yeah, no, no politics in the dream. But a lot of craziness.”

“I suppose I was the, uh, sheriff in Florida?”

“No, actually you were John. John Reinke.”

Lestrade’s eyes widened. “The bloke with no legs?”

John laughed. “The bloke with cool prosthetic legs, yeah. In the dream, you had a set of legs with wheels on the end instead of feet, and Sherlock would get cross every time you’d pass him while chasing a suspect.”

“There were suspects at the tiger zoo?”

“Oh, yeah, all the time. It was a mesh of tiger park and London. Moriarty was Carole Baskin, or she was him, whichever way you want to say it.”

“Weird.” Lestrade shook his head. “Well, guess I should get back to work. Thanks for the call, John; it was a good distraction.”

John reached his hands forward to stop Lestrade before remembering they were on Skype. “Wait! There was one bit about the dream I didn’t tell you yet.”

Lestrade glanced to the side, probably at his mobile, and then re-settled in his chair. “Yeah?”

“There was a trial, and a talking tiger named Moran was the judge. I think Carole-Moriarty was the defendant, but even so, the sentence was that Sherlock was going to be eaten by Moran. The whole courtroom was hushed in shock, but you threw one of your legs at Moran’s mouth, knocking out his teeth and choking him. He was taken out of the courtroom on a gurney with your leg still sticking out of his mouth straight up in the air. The Crown decided somehow that was sufficient reason for Sherlock to be set free. At the celebration, in Mrs. Hudson’s flat, I apologized for your now-missing leg, and you just pulled a different one out of a bag and put it on. Then we had a pint.”

“So just a typical day, really.”

John’s lip twitched up at Lestrade’s underplaying of the moment, but here was the real point he wanted to make. “In one way, it was typical, because you were defending Sherlock. Standing up for him. I appreciate it, you know. He does too, whether he says it or not.”

“Yeah, I’m not fighting off tigers, am I?”

John could see Lestrade’s discomfort and hurried to wrap up. “Of the metaphorical kind, maybe. The Chief Superintendent would've had Sherlock out on his bum ages ago if not for you. So thanks.”

“I do have to go. Zoom pub quiz Saturday?”

“See you then.”

***

“I had the weirdest dream last night,” John said to one of Mycroft’s minions, looking square into the lens of the not-as-hidden-as-was-probably-intended camera in the ground-floor foyer of 221.

"The bit you might find interesting is that your boss was a Las Vegas hustler whose wife would regularly invite other women to join them in bed. Threesomes, can you believe it? I find it hard to imagine Mycroft being anything beyond moderately cordial with one person, let alone two." 

John shook his head and twisted his hips, trying to get more comfortable on the stairs up to his flat. His and Sherlock’s. And Rosie’s. 

He had no idea how he’d managed to fall asleep on these uncomfortable buggers on his stag night, except he did. He’d been thoroughly drunk… and Sherlock had been there. John had gone, and was prepared to go, through any number of discomforts to be where Sherlock was.

Even keeping up communication with Mycroft.

“You also might find it interesting that he and Sherlock were both tiger keepers. Like in that show Tiger King. And they were supposed to collaborate, in order to save this tiger park, but they did it in the most annoying way possible, clashes and snits and some rum accusations from Sherlock. I ended up being the one to get Sherlock to calm down and see things more reasonably, without past slights and competitions interfering. Never you mind how I did it, but I did, and realized I need to be doing more of that in real life.

“You tell your boss this, eh? Mycroft is arrogant -- tried to buy me the first time he met me -- and interfering -- witness how we’re having this discussion now -- and officious, but he has Sherlock’s best interests at heart. I’m going to try to get Sherlock to admit that.

“Despite how --” He couldn’t think of the proper adjective for the brothers’ relationship. “Despite how Sherlock can get, and how Mycroft can get, I know that deep down they do love each other. Maybe even more than me and Harry.” He thought for a moment. “Nope, definitely more than me and Harry. But that’s a story for another day.”

John stood and wiped his hands on his jeans. “Wish me luck with Joe Exotic.”

***

“I had the weirdest dream last night,” John said to Sherlock in the lounge as they walked toward their chairs for some post-Rosie-bedtime relaxation.

“The one where you find out you’re Prince of Genovia and have a three-way with Anne Hathaway and Julie Andrews even though you’re related to both of them?”

John paused in the middle of sitting down in his armchair to glare at Sherlock. “And how do you know about that?” 

“You must have told me.”

“No, I didn’t. I definitely didn’t. And don’t try to pretend you deduced it from me somehow.”

“You talk in your sleep?” was Sherlock’s second attempt; John shook his head.

Sherlock smiled his tiniest smile, the one John couldn’t help but think was sweet. “Mary told me. She thought it was funny --” Sherlock held up his hand at John’s burgeoning protest. “Not the dream itself but that you’d be embarrassed about something so tame. Relatively speaking.”

John’s glare must have morphed in some way, because Sherlock sighed. “Yes, I see, ‘relatively,’ paronomasia not intended.” Waving his hand, he went on, “It’s all normal, threesomes and age differences and even incest among consenting adults. Nothing to be concerned about. Or are you embarrassed about the very pedestrian wish to be elevated without justification to a position of fame, riches, and power? That’s normal too, and I must say if anyone was to be shoved abruptly into governing a small European nation, you have better skills and character for it than the majority of the populace. Including my brother.”

This was all very… Sherlock, so John shoved down his feelings of chagrin about the dream, smiled at the compliment from his friend, and changed the subject. “The dream last night was a new one. It was about--”

“The nefarious ‘high jinks’ of a supposed Tiger King, inspired by the recent documentary.”

It was so typical for Sherlock to steal John’s thunder, John wondered why he was still surprised by it. “Mary didn’t tell you _that_.”

“No, but a few of the living did.” Smiling, Sherlock held up his phone. “I’ve received some texts today. You’ve given more than one person a bit of entertainment today by relating your dream. I believe you’re a born storyteller.”

Thinking of his blog, John looked over to his laptop and smiled. “Lucky for you, huh?”

“Very.” Sherlock’s voice held a deep note of sincerity that John wondered about. “Now, let’s have it. The tale of the brilliant and amazing Tiger Master.”

“Tiger King. And you were the king, as you obviously know.”

Sherlock nodded regally. The git. 

“What else did people tell you?” 

“Not much, but I’ve put together the probable plot of your dream based on my knowledge of your thinking process, such as it is, and the throughline of the original documentary.”

John gave Sherlock a stony look. “You’ve watched the show? Why didn’t you join Mrs. H and me when we asked, instead of getting on your high horse about it?”

Sherlock adjusted the cuffs on his shirt. “It seems I may have incorrectly pre-judged the entertainment value of flamboyant idiots with tigers and guns.”

“I’ll say.” Now they were coming to the important bit. John could feel the corners of his lips pulling up, purely from nerves. Time to dive in. “You’ve deduced who I was?”

“Obviously the Head Keeper. The one who kept everything on track while Joe Exotic was off on his antics, grandstanding; the one who actually cared about the tigers’ wellbeing, which translates to your continued caring --”

“The husband,” interrupted John.

The swift ascent of Sherlock’s eyebrows would have made John giggle if this weren’t so stomach-clenchingly important. 

“Pardon?”

“In my dream,” John repeated, “I was the husband.”

The ‘does not compute’ stare was out in full force, but this time John was ready for it. He used the moments to think about how really lovely Sherlock’s eyes were.

With a blink, Sherlock rebooted. “Oh, I see. You mean the one who left Joe for a wife and a baby. Yes, that makes--”

“No,” John interrupted, shaking his head. “In my dream, you’d only ever had one husband, and it was Dillon. The last one. The one who truly cared about Joe, who stuck by him even with the loss of their livelihood, who missed him when he had to go away.”

Sherlock adjusted his position in his chair. “Ah yes. I can certainly see how that parallels your experience, and let me again --”

“The one who was in love with him.”

John had never seen Sherlock’s jaw drop before, had never dreamed that Sherlock’s look of astonishment would be so… well, unattractive, really. That was fine, though; the attractiveness of the rest of him more than made up for it. John leaned forward to ensure this next part got through.

“The one who was swept off his feet from the very beginning, dazzled by the man’s charisma and energy, and never stopped being charmed by someone others could find abrasive and over the top.”

Sherlock blinked rapidly, then seemed to catch himself and sat up straighter. “You’re saying that…”

“Mm hm.” 

“You…”

John pointed to himself.

Sherlock finished, “Love me?”

“Yes.”

“The ‘in love’ kind of love?”

“Yes.”

"But you're not gay, as you have declared repeatedly."

"Well. That. I'm not, but." John cleared his throat, wishing for a glass of water that wasn't going to appear because there was no way he was moving from this spot before they'd worked out everything. "Have you heard that saying, ‘every straight bloke has occasional gay thoughts’?” He didn’t wait for Sherlock to respond. “Well, it turns out that most straight men’s definition of ‘occasional’ is a lot... less... er, frequent than mine.”

Sherlock leaned forward. “Did you conduct a poll?”

John laughed at the very plausible idea of Sherlock conducting just such a poll. “No. Went online to an LGBTQ+ ‘questioning’ discussion forum during meal break at the surgery.”

“You could have an entire conversation during a meal break? With the speed you type?”

“Oi!” Cheeky bastard. “It was a series of conversations; I needed time to sort myself out.”

Sherlock squinted. “You haven’t had access to the surgery’s computers in almost a fortnight, and we both know you haven’t used your laptop for that; yes, yes, I’m terrible.”

“And?”

“I believe the term in the vernacular is ‘nosy.’”

“Not ‘and’ what you are! ‘And’ the rest of your thought!”

“I was wondering what you did with the rest of the fortnight after you sorted yourself out.”

“The twenty minutes that was left? Put Rosie to bed and had a chat with your brother’s minions through the foyer’s camera.” John was tempted to stand, feeling that pacing might help his nerves, but Sherlock was here, facing him, eye to eye, and this was the moment. “Life-and-death situations, I can make decisions in a split second, but this? You know how… difficult I find it.”

“But you did? Sort yourself out, I mean?”

“On this, yeah. I. Am.” John took a deep, cleansing breath and let it out. “Bi.”

“You’ve only dated women,” Sherlock pointed out.

He knew somehow that Sherlock wasn’t questioning John’s orientation so much as testing it. Making sure John was certain of and committed to it. Luckily, John was. “Right. I’m attracted to a lot of women and not a lot of men. Still counts as bi.”

“Ah.” Sherlock sat back in a graceful move. “I’m gay, by the way, and in case it was running through your head _again_ , I have never been attracted to any part of Irene Adler other than her mind. Because I am attracted exclusively to men.”

“Got it.” John smiled.

They looked at each other for a few minutes, John with a rising sense of serenity and Sherlock with what looked like a growing case of nerves. Fortunately, John had thought this next part through with Sherlock’s nerves specifically in mind.

“So, I thought it might be helpful for you if I came up with some options for what we do now. They’re in order by amount of change. Before I tell them to you, you should know that all of these options are fine with me. Ones I do not find acceptable, such as you dying again, aren’t in this. These are all pre-approved by me, so it will be totally up to you which one we go with. OK?”

Sherlock nodded, then cleared his throat. “And I can… propose amendments to these options?”

“Oh, sure; these are broad options that you and I will work through the details of as we go. You’ll see when you hear them. Ready?”

“Yes.”

“Option one. We go on as we have been, working cases together and being best friends, and in a few years Rosie and I move out from 221B.”

Immediately, Sherlock straightened in his chair. “Unacceptable.”

“Rosie is going to want her own room eventually.”

“Option one is _unacceptable_ ,” Sherlock repeated. “Strike it from the list.”

John nodded. He’d rather hoped that would be Sherlock’s response, as option one was only just barely fine for John. “OK, option two. We go on as we have been, and figure out a way to re-configure the flat to make it a three-bedroom. I’m not quite sure how we do it, but maybe there’s attic space we don’t know about? We’d have to talk to Mrs. Hudson and it’s going to be expensive.”

“Immaterial.” 

“I haven’t seen this month’s bank statements yet, but unless there’s been a huge payment--”

“Mycroft will consider renovation a legitimate expense, especially as it involves Rosie’s welfare, and will pay the bills from my trust fund.”

“You have a trust fund?” John had suspected but not known for sure.

“Considerably depleted compared to what it used to be and thus in Mycroft’s iron fist, but yes. It would cover renovation.”

Not something John had experience with, but… Fine. John would think about what he thought about that later.

“Well, there are more options, so listen to them all before you choose.”

“Mm.” Sherlock had turned sideways and his legs were now dangling over the side of his chair.

“Option three. We go on as we have been, figure out how to renovate the flat, and…” This was a big one.

“Yes?”

“You adopt Rosie.”

Sherlock’s surprise was only slightly less expressed than it had been at John’s confession of love. The blank stare didn’t last nearly as long, though. “You want me to take legal responsibility for your daughter through her lifetime.”

Now John was nervous. He’d thought that would be a definite yes. Time to save things: “You don’t have to. I know it’s asking a lot. I just thought it might make things easier in--”

“John.”

“Yes?”

Sherlock sighed. “You’ve misinterpreted my intent, which was to confirm that it is indeed I to whom you would entrust your daughter’s care. A drug addict with appalling social skills and a dangerous profession.”

“Recovering addict, and I’ve _been_ entrusting you with Rosie’s care, and you’ve been brilliant at it. You’re horrible at taking care of your own basic needs, but you keep _her_ on schedule, well fed, and happy. You’re already co-parenting with me; this would just provide some legal protection for the relationship. But you don’t have to if you don’t want to. I promise I won’t think any less of you.”

“I _do_ want to,” Sherlock replied. “It’s just so monumental that I feel humbled in the face of it, unsure if my skills and stamina will be enough.”

John couldn’t stop a chuckle from rising up. “ _Every_ parent feels that way. Multiple times, so get ready, Papa Sherlock.”

“Ella.”

“What?” 

“Ella. That's what Rosie calls me and I'm quite fond of it.”

“You’re changing your name to Ella?”

“You’re not dull-witted; don’t pretend to be. My name is Sherlock; my title will be Ella. Just as your name is John and your title is Daddy.”

Smiling hugely, John replied, “OK then, Ella.”

“Plus it will confuse the parents on the playground to hear Rosie call me Ella, and perhaps shake them out of their cishet stupor.”

“Well, yes, of course.” John was immeasurably pleased. He had known Sherlock loved Rosie, and now everyone and the courts would as well.

“Any other options? You can drop from the list any that exclude adopting Rosie, obviously.”

John wanted to hug Sherlock ferociously. Wanted ferociously, although hugging ferociously might be fun. He’d have to see how Sherlock felt about it.

“A few more. Option four. We go on as we have been, you adopt Rosie, and we don’t have to renovate the flat because you and I share a bedroom, due to us being in a romantic relationship.”

Sherlock was on the edge of his seat, back straight. “That one. I pick that one.”

John held up his hands. “Wait, there’s one more option. Hear them all before making your choice, remember?”

“Fine.” Sherlock just about rolled his eyes and murmured, “Still going to pick option four.”

Smiling, John mentally laid down the last option like the final card played in a million-pound poker game. Although it was Sherlock’s choice, not his, this option was the one that he really wanted.

“Option five. We go on as we have been, you adopt Rosie, and you and I share a bedroom because we’re in a romantic _and_ sexual relationship.”

“Oh.” Sherlock stood abruptly. He threw, “That last option, yes,” over his shoulder as he walked toward the kitchen.

Not the reaction John had expected, to say the least. He followed Sherlock into the kitchen (and fetched himself a glass of water while he was there). “You choose the last option?”

Sherlock didn’t look up from where he was inspecting a partly finished experiment as he replied crisply, “Yes. I choose the last option.”

Weird. The enthusiasm level was considerably lower than it had been for option four, and nervousness was higher. John was determined not to push or coerce Sherlock into anything. ‘Meh’ consent meant no consent, in his mind. “Are you sure?”

“Why?” Sherlock stalked back into the lounge and then whirled to face John. “Are you bad in bed?”

John was drawn up short by that. “What? Me? No!”

Haughty little nose in the air, Sherlock continued, “Do you have enough experience to know?”

“Enough--?” John was starting to steam. “Listen,” he said, and pointed a finger directly at Sherlock’s heart, “you do not want me to walk you through all the experience I have.”

“So you're a slag.”

John dropped his arm and placed his water glass firmly on the table. “Are you trying to piss me off?”

A tiny smile started playing around Sherlock’s lips. “Yes, and it's working quite nicely.”

John’s anger began to dissipate, replaced by confusion. “Why would--?” He took a moment to think -- a moment Sherlock spent fidgeting in the middle of the lounge -- and glowed internally when the answer came to him. “You think I'm sexy when I'm angry.’’

“Not truly angry, no.” As John stalked toward him, Sherlock actually visibly gulped. “A little perturbed? Maybe.”

“Maybe?” John murmured. They were just inches away from each other now. John put one hand on Sherlock’s hip and reached up with his other for the back of Sherlock’s neck. Soft hair. “I can work with that.”

Soft lips touched John’s. Sherlock laid his hand lightly on John’s left hip, mirroring the move John had made. Mirroring was an excellent tactic for learning kissing skills, John had found out a few decades ago, and it seemed Sherlock was employing it now, following the gentle presses John made against first Sherlock’s top lip and then bottom lip with presses of his own.

After a few minutes, John pulled back. If he could see his own eyes, he was convinced there’d be stars in them. That was a hell of a sweet, gentle first kiss. 

Which reminded John of what he wanted to say to Sherlock.

“And you also pissed me off to try to distract me from the question of whether you're sure you want a sexual relationship.”

Sherlock groaned, pulled away completely, and flopped into his chair.

“It's OK if you don't.” John positioned himself behind his own chair, facing Sherlock directly but giving them some distance. “I told you earlier any of the options work for me. It's all fine, and I mean that.”

“I'm not asexual, John.”

“Ace or sex-avoidant or--”

“No, none of those. I want to have sex with you.”

Cha-ching! Option five for sure. Awesome and amazing and… perplexing. There was still something going on with Sherlock; John was trying not to frown but he could feel his lips pulling down. “Then--”

“My intent was to make you so focused on demonstrating your sexual prowess that you wouldn't notice…” He trailed off.

“What?”

“That I don't have any. Prowess.”

Nope, distance was the wrong idea. John stepped to Sherlock’s chair, pulled the man up, and wrapped him in a hug that John hoped was as tender and protective as he was now feeling.

Sherlock’s arms encircled John too, tentatively, finally finding their place on John’s upper and lower back.

From the hug, John gently asked, “Mycroft was right? You're a virgin?”

Sherlock pulled back just enough to look John in the eye. “No, I've had sex, with more than one person. But it wasn't in bed _per se_ , and more importantly, it wasn't with someone that I cared about disappointing.” Sherlock looked away. “So sexual prowess is not something I can claim.”

That this brilliant, remarkable man would make himself vulnerable to a rather Plain Jane like John was nothing short of amazing. He wanted to prove himself worthy of that, and fortunately he had an idea right at hand. “Well,” he told Sherlock, “you don't know, do you?”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, making John smile.

“You don't have evidence one way or the other. You need evidence. So do I, in fact.”

“You?” Sherlock asked skeptically. “The slag?”

“Shut up,” John ordered fondly. “I mean, with men. One drunken snog and a few mutual handjobs don’t add up to much of anything, do they?”

“When did you--”

John hushed Sherlock with a brief finger to the lips. “We can talk about history later. Now, we have some evidence to collect.”

“I’m brilliant at collecting evidence,” Sherlock noted.

They were beginning a push-pull through the lounge toward the stairs that led to Sherlock’s current bedroom. Which starting tomorrow night would be Rosie’s bedroom. Just Rosie’s, and John smiled at that, provoking an answering smile on Sherlock’s gorgeous mug.

“You are definitely a keen observer,” John replied. “I’m not bad at collecting evidence myself, though.”

“When it involves vigorous activity or shooting your gun off, you are exceptional.” Sherlock grabbed John’s hand and pulled him up the stairs.

***

“I had the weirdest dream last night,” John said first thing in the morning, stretching to get a few sleep kinks out.

“And that was?” Sherlock rumbled from just a few inches away, face smashed into his pillow, facing away.

John smiled at Sherlock’s curls. “I told you how I felt, and you actually agreed to be with me. Then we had a rather brilliant shag.”

Sherlock rolled over, elongated his entire body like a cat, then propped his head up on a bent arm. “It doesn’t take someone with my deductive powers to conclude that those activities did, in fact, occur.”

“Hm.” John mirrored Sherlock’s pose. “You’d better take me through the evidence, genius.”

“We’re both 1) lying in the same bed, 2) naked, 3) with enormous grins on our faces, and 4) crusty bits where the clean-up after said shag wasn’t quite as fastidious as you normally are.”

“Ah,” replied John. “That does all point to an excellent shag. But the feelings and commitment bit before then?”

Sherlock tugged the sheet down to show more of his chest, and inspected his arms, front and back. “It’s not written on my skin? I could swear I feel it written all over my skin: John Watson loves me; together we will be.”

“And you call me a romantic.” John pulled Sherlock toward him for a good-morning kiss and cuddle. They had maybe a half-hour before--

John sat up. “Rosie’s monitor. I forgot to bring it upstairs.” He climbed out of bed.

“Ugh,” Sherlock groaned and flopped face-first into his pillow again.

Looking for his missing pants, John admonished, “We’re _parents_ , Sherlock. We have to be responsible.”

“Rnmfn,” said Sherlock.

“Your pillow makes a terrible translator.” Where were those pants?

Rotating his head just enough for his lips to clear the cotton of the pillowcase, Sherlock informed John, “There’s an app on my phone. It’s connected to Rosie’s monitor. You don’t need the actual unit.”

Sure enough, Sherlock’s phone was charging on the nightstand. John leaned against the dresser and sighed. “And you didn’t tell me about this why?”

“Mm.” Sherlock rolled onto his back and stretched, putting even more of his body on display. “Because I’m a brat.”

His mouth suddenly dry, John licked his lips. “A brat, are you?”

“Mm hm. A _naughty_ brat.”

John could swear that Sherlock was actually batting his eyelashes at him. 

“I need punishment,” Sherlock continued, and that was John’s breaking point. He had to get Sherlock back in his arms immediately.

“Ah ah,” John corrected, crawling up the bed over Sherlock’s luscious body. “Brats need discipline, not punishment.”

“The difference?” asked Sherlock, wiggling enticingly.

“The difference,” John said with a sigh of relief as he lowered his body onto Sherlock’s, “is that discipline includes both positive and negative consequences.” He kissed Sherlock thoroughly. “Clear?”

“Yes, sir. Spank me now?”

Surprised, John pushed up on his arms to better see Sherlock’s face. “You really would want to do that? To, um, play? I thought we were just flirting.”

“I’m never letting you chat up a suspect again if that’s your idea of flirting.” Sherlock pushed up and kissed John on the nose before falling back to the mattress again. “Yes, I really want to do that. With you, in particular, because I’ve deduced you would be very good at it.”

“How-- Never mind.” Rolling off Sherlock, John settled on his back and stared at the ceiling. “I don’t know if I can. With you. The ordering around bit is fine, and the rewarding part would be amazing, but spanking--”

Sherlock gently touched John’s chest; John pulled him into a loose hug. Arms there, but Sherlock could go any time he wanted to.

“I’ve already laid hands on you, hurt you, and it was horribly unforgivable, and I’m never doing that again.”

Sherlock pressed firmly against John’s side. “I--”

“Stop. If you say ‘I deserved it,’ once more, you’re going to find out just what the ultimate punishment is. You did _not_ deserve it.”

John stroked Sherlock’s curls and continued, “I’ve already talked to Lestrade about it. If I put hands on you in anger ever again, he’s agreed to arrest me, no matter what you say. If I hurt you to the degree I did ever again, he won’t have to arrest me because Mycroft’s agreed to disappear me.”

“John,” Sherlock sighed. “You were under extreme stress. It won’t happen again.”

“No, it won’t, both because I’m determined as hell and because I’ve put up a system to make sure it doesn’t happen.”

“A system. In anger.” Sherlock’s voice had the ‘eureka’ tone in it, and John craned his neck trying to see Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock pushed up, his hands to either side of John’s head, and looked down at John. “Those are the two important phrases to the solution.”

“The solution to what?” asked John.

“The solution to being able to engage in dominant-submissive sexual games without you feeling guilty. You won’t put your hands on me _in anger_ , but I have ample evidence that you will put your hands on me in other circumstances.”

“Yes, you do.” John pushed the curls off Sherlock’s forehead, only to have them tumble down again.

“Therefore, we need to disassociate the discipline -- including spanking, as that is oh so pleasurable -- from anger. Isn’t that the way of discipline with children anyway? The parent who is angry puts discipline aside to deal with later?”

“Yeah, you’re right.” John smiled. “My genius.”

Sherlock laid down again, and pulled at John until they were both lying on their sides facing each other. “And we need a system, so that if you ever feel angry, you can stop things.”

“And if you ever suspect I’m angry, you can stop things.”

“Right. They’re called safewords. One easy system is the traffic light: green for continue, yellow for pause, and red for stop.”

“Mm, not ‘red.'”

“Why not?”

“Because a brat being disciplined might have a red bum I want to comment on. In some detail.”

A cute flush spread across Sherlock’s cheeks. “Ah. Yes. I see.”

“I suggest 'Vatican cameos' to mean we’ll take a pause and see whether both of us want to continue. If not, we’ll stop.”

“We already have that as a code,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Meaning someone will soon die, yes.” John rolled back and tugged Sherlock to lie on his chest. “And I'll die if I hurt you again, so that works.”

Sherlock gave the closest thing he could to a hug in the positions they were both in; John kissed Sherlock’s head. More than once. 

“Just out of curiosity,” asked Sherlock, “what was the ultimate punishment you mentioned earlier?”

John smirked. He’d thought this one up weeks ago, saving it for a truly egregious transgression. “All sweets will officially be ‘Rosie only’ foods.”

“No!” Sherlock’s look of horror as he sat up was hilarious. “You can’t do that! I’m a grown man. And anyway, you’ll start work again soon, so you wouldn’t be able to monitor me.”

John sat up as well. It was time to start thinking about breakfast. “I’d get Rosie to monitor you. You know she’d be excellent at it.”

Sherlock pouted. “That’s _diabolical_ , John.”

“Well, continue being the great partner you’ve been lately, and you won’t have to worry about it.”

As John stood up to try again to locate his pants, Sherlock grabbed his arm and tugged him back to the bed. “Wait. There’s something else we should talk about.”

“OK, what?”

“Your pants are at the foot of the bed, under the sheet.”

John was grateful for the information but confused why it had required him to sit back down. “That’s what you wanted to talk about?”

Sighing, Sherlock continued, “No. That’s the item I needed to get out of the way so you wouldn’t be worrying about it like you have for the last several minutes and could focus entirely on our discussion.”

“Oh. Thanks. Hold on.” He lifted the sheet and could just about see his pants, so he crawled down to retrieve them. Crawling back, he amused himself by nudging Sherlock from under the sheet like a cat. When he finally had his pants on and had emerged from the covers, he was ready for whatever Sherlock wanted to talk about. Although he hoped it wasn’t anything gruesome enough to put him off breakfast. “Ready.”

Sherlock took John’s hands in his, looked deeply into John’s eyes, and said, “Partners. I want us to be partners.”

“Instead of ‘boyfriends’?” John didn’t give a tinker’s damn what they called the relationship, as long as they _had_ the relationship. “Sure, that’s fine.”

“No, it isn’t fine!” Sherlock protested. “We should be partners in addition to boyfriends.”

“You want us to call ourselves two different things? I guess that’s fine. Bit weird, but fine.”

With his _the entire world is sent to test me_ expression firmly in place, Sherlock shook his head. “You’re talking about partners romantically; I’m talking about partners in the work.”

“Well, sure. I said we’d go on as we have been, remember? I love going on cases with you.” John twisted his hands so he could give Sherlock’s hands a squeeze.

Another shake of Sherlock’s head. “Not as we have been, as the great detective and his assistant-slash-blogger. I want us to write up a legal whatever for the work that shows us as full partners. Equals.”

Smiling, John swiped his left thumb across Sherlock’s cheekbone. “That’s a sweet gesture. But it’s _your_ work; you’re the genius.”

“It’s _our_ work, and if we charged a bit more, you wouldn’t have to go into that boring, horrid surgery so often.” Obviously noticing John’s mouth opening, Sherlock added, “After the coronavirus, of course. And I’m a genius, yes, but you’re the smart one. About people who haven’t committed crimes yet, and remembering to collect payment and pay bills and all that side of things. We both contribute; we should both be on the nameplate or whatever it’s called.”

Stark naked, Sherlock crawled off the bed and then dropped to one knee on the floor. He held his fingers in what would have been the perfect position for showing a ring box, if he’d had a ring box. “John Middle-Name-He-Hates Watson, will you do me the honor of signing a legal document -- we’ll make Mycroft figure out which one and the details and all that nonsense -- attesting to the entire world that we are business partners?”

John cocked his head. “I thought you were married to your work.”

“The work and I want to make it a threesome.”

“In that case.” John shuffled to the side of the bed closest to Sherlock and swooped down on him for a quick kiss. “William Sherlock Scott Holmes, I accept.”

There was a longer kiss after that which severely tempted John to drag Sherlock back into the bed and reprise the previous night’s activities.

He was falling headlong into temptation when Sherlock’s phone beeped. “Daddy? Ella?”

John and Sherlock both groaned the groan of the interrupted lover and began gathering the clothes scattered around the room. John put his on; Sherlock dumped his onto the bed and grabbed a dressing gown to wear instead.

“You’re not going to be telling everyone about _this_ dream, are you?” asked Sherlock.

John drew Sherlock into his arms for a quick kiss and hug before going to get Rosie. “The salacious parts, no. But the ‘Sherlock agreed to be mine’ part? Most definitely.”

Walking down the stairs, John was stopped by Sherlock’s hand on his shoulder. “John! I just realized I never said it.”

“Said what?”

“That I love you.”

“Oh, that.” After a quick wink aimed at his partner, John continued walking down their stairs in their flat to go get their daughter and start their day. “I deduced that ages ago.”

**Author's Note:**

> Created for Banned Together Bingo 2020. Prompt was “Bisexual Main Character.” Yes, there were several loose ends left by Season Four of Sherlock that I felt the urge to stitch up; don’t ask me why Tiger King was the vehicle to do it because only my subconscious knows. 
> 
> Also, a P.S. that’s not long enough to be an epilogue: John is going to be quite surprised when he finds out the size of the trust fund awaiting Rosie as the only member of her generation of the Holmes family (Mummy and Daddy Holmes having been only children, in my mind, and Mycroft having washed his hands of procreation at about the time Sherlock was born).
> 
> PPS. I drafted the argument about Sherlock secretly watching Tiger King, put it in an unusual spot on my computer, forgot about it, and just today found it again. Here is the first draft of that dialogue: 
> 
> John: You called it salacious claptrap!  
> Sherlock: I watched it while you and Rosie were sleeping.  
> John: We could've watched together.  
> Sherlock: I prefer to consume salacious claptrap in private, thank you.


End file.
